Of the Chosen
by Shizuku Tsukishima749
Summary: By all accounts, he should be dead. Oneshot. -Warning: psychologically disturbed Ash.-


_A/N: _This is an idea that has been swirling around in my head for a while, I think since sometime last year. Anyway, my initial wonder was how the heck Ash could be fine after having so many near-death experiences, and I concluded that he had to be affected in _some _way. He wouldn't be human if he wasn't.

Thus (and I use that term quite seriously), if Ash is OOC (and by golly, I'm sure he is--I'll make this AU, then), I apologize.

I only recently started writing down my ideas, and this hatched. It strayed from my original focus quite a bit, which leaves me a bit disappointed in it, but I figured I'd see what you thought.

**Important: **As stated in the summary, this story contains a psychologically-damaged/disturbed Ash. If you don't like the idea/implications of that, click back, please.

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Pokemon. It would appear that Nintendo, Inc. and GAME FREAK, Inc. do. If I'm wrong, sorry; that's what I see at the bottom of the official website.

In addition: This small, centered part at the beginning, by the way, is a glance into Ash's mind, one to let you readers know some of what goes on in his head.

* * *

**Of the Chosen**

By all accounts, he should be dead.

Ash breathed; deeply, steadily, surely. Inhale before exhale, one continuously following the other.

Just as it had always been.

He'd almost died again. He didn't know the time's number.

He had stopped counting long ago.

This was getting to be too much;

Too much fear, too much strife, too much of those bright, red eyes waiting to take his soul to a place unknown…

_Too much_…

He didn't how much more he could take.

——

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Or, was it? Was this endless torrent his life, this tumultuous current that had never ceased to be since the day he'd left home all those years ago?

Was he…was he _fated _to die?

It seemed so. He hated it; he fought it; but every time, no matter what he did or who he was with, those haunting, sadistic eyes always found him.

Sometimes, he dreamed of them, as he had lately; that explained the purple-gray bags under his eyes, the paleness of his cheeks, the reduction in his weight, the ongoing haze in his head. It explained so many things.

This sickness of his was not unusual; for him, at least. He had been known to shut himself off from time to time after his near-death experiences, thus blocking everything from his mind and everyone from his heart.

He remembered something his Mother used to say to him, something about him having a "blessed heart."

He smirked humorlessly in the darkness.

Where was that so-called heart when he needed it? Why did he even have one if it only served to make him care so much that he put himself in danger? Where was the sense in making his Mother and friends worry themselves to tears, exhaustion, or even sickness? Why did he always have to be the hero?

He had once been told that he was the Chosen One. If that was truly the case, he hated it. He hated the fact that he had been chosen to deal with the problems of his world; he hated the fact that he put others in danger, sometimes by just acknowledging their presences with a nod of the head; he hated the fact that he could not bring himself to let go of this hatred, this thing that made him so miserable and so driven to live all at once.

He _hated _who he was, who he had eternally been and was destined to be. He hated his body; he hated his mind; he hated his soul; he hated his _heart_.

He hated _everything_.

He was blind now, gone from the stirring world and into the pitch blackness of his dreams. He couldn't escape those eyes here, the dragon of his inner self, but he couldn't bring himself to fight it either, lest he slay the beast and face what was left, his worst enemy: himself.

He was afraid, admittedly and not. The friends traveling with him during these times could see it plainly in his uncharacteristic manner of behavior and deteriorating health. Moreover, they could see something else, too, something much more demanding: he was fading fast.

The others, those who were away and could only communicate with him over the various towns' Pokémon Center computers, could tell as well. After finishing their lengthy conversations with him, they would politely ask to speak with whoever was journeying with him at the time, feigning mass excitement at the prospect of seeing said person or persons again.

The boy would grin and kindly bend, going to get the requested while the initiators would worriedly watch his back through the screen, having not missed the tiredness in his voice. When those called would make their appearances, the conversations would launch into expressions of worry and relays of possible ways to help, always ending on notes of hope for the boy's recovery. A _permanent _one.

There was a seeming bleakness here. He could run from his fate, but he clearly couldn't hide from it, and that scared him. He wanted to get _away _from this responsibility, from this challenge, from this _place _and all that came with it, but he didn't know how.

He was powerless, and he knew it. He had no way of knowing what was to happen next, which eventually manifested into an irrational fear of the future.

He began to let go of his dreams, shun the idea of becoming the greatest Pokémon Master in history if it meant going out into the world, if it meant another opportunity for Death's jaws to snap at him.

Undoubtedly, he was afraid.

Going from ten to sixteen over the years since his adventure had started, and now having turned seventeen just yesterday, he realized time was short. He still had so many battles to win, so many Pokémon to add to his team and to train, so many defeats and friendships from which to learn along the way.

Certainly, Ash Ketchum was not stupid. Rather, at an alarming rate, he was dying.

* * *

A band of friends and family was present now, consisting of Delia, Professor Oak, Tracey, Brock, Misty, May, Max, Gary, Richie, Melody, Morrison, all of their respective Pokémon—including Ash's from the Professor's lab—and so many, many others.

This was an intervention.

Ash had made an impact on all of them, and they couldn't just stand by as he slipped away.

Working quickly, they broke into his locked room. The carefully executed abilities of some Fire, Psychic, Grass, and Water-type Pokémon destroyed the Special-Ore key Ash had stuck into the keyhole to keep them out, breaking down his other external defenses in as much time.

Once inside, they crowded in, shutting and barricading the door and windows to prevent him from escaping. He wouldn't have, though; he couldn't have. He will was gone.

They saw him sitting on the bed, legs tucked underneath him, fists clenched at his sides with his head down. They could see the tears dripping from the end of his nose to splatter in his lap, see his shoulders shaking from suppressed sobs, and hear the gasps for breath he made as it became increasingly harder to keep up his walls.

He _wanted _to live again, was _desperate _to do so, but the life of the Chosen One could never be so easy. If he lived, he would be confronted by all of the things he abhorred about himself, all of the fears and doubts that plagued his mind, and he didn't know if he could face that. He'd tried so many times already, and each outcome had been the same as always: his soul had almost been snatched from him.

No one moved; indeed, most were afraid to breathe. Seeing someone they loved so much in that state was scarring, even for the strongest among them.

A small, yellow, brown-striped Pokémon watched its nearly lifelong Trainer darkly. It was broken, as he was; shattered and splintered and floundering for some grounding in this black sea of insanity, it needed to be reborn as much as he did.

Conclusively, a catharsis would be the best kind of medicine right about now.

Using its Agility, a move remembered and considered sacred to both Trainer and Pokémon, it padded across the room and leaped upon the bed at an amazing speed to rest in front of him. Cautiously, tenderly, the Electric-type crept forward, crawling into his lap and pressing its front paws to his chest.

Standing on the tips of its hind paws, it ducked under the boy's signature cap and gazed into his russet, watery eyes, not saying anything. For a minute, it seemed as if it would get no response, as if its efforts had been futile.

Then, a flash across those big, spirited, life-giving-and-receiving eyes, and he came back to them. Lifting his head almost unnoticeably, perceptible only to the golden Pokémon, he gave a smile. The occupants of the room breathed.

Ash Ketchum would be all right…given the time.

With these people and Pokémon to love him, there was no other option.

Such was the life of the Chosen.

* * *

_A/N: _Not to freak anyone out, by the reference to Ash 'dying' in the last line before the story's first divider ("Rather, at an alarming rate, he was dying"), I mean majorly in the mental area. Yet, as is expressed in various parts here, it is obvious his physical health isn't faring well either, and he would have died eventually if those good people and Pokemon hadn't stepped up to the test.

**Important: **By the way, this doesn't happen after each of his near-deaths trials, so don't go thinking Ash is a wimp. When Ash realized that he had lost count of the times he'd almost lost his life, he really took things into account. This, then, is the result.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
